|The Games We Play
Author: xPrettyXxRadx PM
When Marc and I first met, I wasn't wearing clothes. This explains a lot about the kind of relationship we have. If it can even be called a relationship and not just mutual sexual attraction. Either way, Tristan warned me that Marc's a lady-killer. It's a good thing then that I'm not a lady. Female, yes. But definitely not a lady.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Humor - Chapters: 6 - Words: 20,480 - Reviews: 12 - Favs: 19 - Follows: 16 - Updated: 01-20-13 - Published: 10-15-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3065808
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/n: Yes, yes. New story. Short (about 5 chapters long) with irregular updates (i.e. whenever I get around to it). And it's heterosexual. Told from the point of view of a female. I am as shocked as you are that this actually came out of my brain after five years of writing nothing but stories told from a gay guy's perspective. So, yeah. This should be interesting.
Now, for the warnings. As you've probably guessed from the summary, the plot is sexual in nature. Also, the main character is a vulgar and perverted bitch. If sex and inappropriate language does not sit well with you, then don't read this. But if you're like me and love those things, then you may proceed and I hope you enjoy the chapter.
THE GAMES WE PLAY
The coffee I'm drinking is disgustingly bitter.
It's always disgusting bitter because I'm too fucking broke to buy anything that doesn't taste like burnt tar or smell like a dead skunk rotting in the hot midday sun on said burnt tar. Still, I drink several mugfuls a day from a monstrosity of black porcelain that equals two and a half normal sized mugs with the word "FUCKER" painted haphazardly in white on it (a Christmas gift from my roommate). I can't help it; I'm addicted to this shit. It's my goddamn lifeline. Without it, I'd probably be as useful as a tiny decorative spoon bought at an Alabama gas station you only stop at because you have to take a piss thanks to that mega-sized coffee you drank an hour ago that you bought from the last gas station you stopped at to actually fill up your tank so your shitty car didn't die on the side of highway as you drive back home from a failure of a gun expo you couldn't even buy anything at because all your extra cash was spent on the gas to get you there; and as you're sitting on the disgusting, ass-germ infested toilet, you remember that Tuesday is your mom's birthday and you haven't bought her a gift yet, so you get the spoon (which has a fucking hole in the middle of it for no fucking reason) because it's cheap and so are you, and it's not like your mom expects much from you anyway.
Yeah. That's what I would be if I didn't have my disgustingly bitter coffee. A cheap, holey spoon from a gas station. Just bitchier.
I force down another mouthful of the liquid shit. It's lukewarm now, which does not make it taste any better. In fact, it makes me want to gag it's so fucking awful. I just scowl instead, angrily highlighting a paragraph in my economics books with a temperamental pink highlighter. Goddamn thing is fucking new, too. Or it's supposed to be. I bet it was on the shelf for years before I came along, just sitting there with its ink drying up to almost nothing. But I really should have expected as much. I mean, this is what happened when you're so poor you have to buy your shit at the dollar store.
The highlighter dies four words before the end of the paragraph. I blow air furiously out of my nose as I run the damn thing over and over my book, trying to push out any last remains of ink, but there's nothing. Growling under my breath, I chuck the stupid thing away from me and then take another gulp of gross, lukewarm coffee. I stare down at my book as I do, glancing over my highlighting job.
Nearly the whole page is highlighted in shitty pink ink.
I slam the book closed. 'Cause fuck studying. It doesn't matter if I study or not anyway. Either way, I'm still going to ace the damn midterm. Which means that I just wasted the past two hours. What a fucking piece of shit.
Shoving myself away from my desk, I grab my half-empty FUCKER mug along with my half-empty pack of cigarettes and zippo (with 'Suck My Dick' engraved on it; another gift from my lovely roommate), and head towards the balcony. I collapse in one of the two uncomfortable plastic lawn chairs I bought from a yard sale for two bucks a pop. It takes a minute for me to find the least painful position, which is still pretty goddamn painful. Once I do, I stick a cigarette between my lips and light it up with a flourish. I inhale deep, relishing in the smoke filling my lungs and the nicotine absorbing into my blood, and tilt my head back against the chair with satisfaction that is almost as good as an orgasm.
For the next fifteen minutes, I chain-smoke my way through five cigarettes. Even though it's fucking freezing out here. Even though I began shivering my ass off halfway through my second cigarette. It wouldn't be so bad if I had clothes on (as it is, I'm only wearing nonmatching underwear: a blue and green polka-dotted pushup bra and striped orange boy-shorts). But fuck clothes. They're for public, not when I'm alone in my apartment. Even if a hoodie would prevent my nipples from feeling like they could cut through steel because they are so fucking hard right now.
It's only when my fingers are too numb to hold another cigarette that I finally decide to go back inside. Not without pouring the remnants of my disgusting coffee over the balcony railing, of course. The sound of it splattering on the pavement three floors below gives me a weird feeling of contentment. I have a smirk on my face as I walk back into the warm interior of my apartment with my empty FUCKER mug and almost empty pack of cigarettes that won't last me through the rest of the night.
I scowl as I realize this and how it means I have to walk the two blocks to the local corner store to buy more. It pisses me off. Not the walk or the act of spending five bucks on smokes—just the fact that I'll have to put clothes on in order to do it.
As I finished closing the balcony door behind me, the door to the apartment opens. I whip my head towards it, my scowl deepening when I catch a glimpse of the clock. It's only 12:17 AM. Douche-bag said he wouldn't be back until 3. The fuck is this bullshit.
The look on Tristan's face when he sees me standing in the middle of our "living room" in nothing but my underwear is not shock or slight embarrassment. This has happened too many fucking times for him to be shocked or embarrassed by seeing me almost naked. Which completely explains why the expression he has on is one of weary exasperation.
"Put some clothes on, Dani," he says with a sigh, not even missing a beat.
"Fuck you," I tell him happily. Then, I head in the direction of our kitchen. If it even could be called that when it's really six square feet of not enough counter space, a tiny microwave, a stove with two burners that don't work and an oven that burns whatever is put in it, and a noisy refrigerator that smells permanently like bad Chinese food. I drop my FUCKER mug in the sink, pretending that I don't hear the damaging clink it makes against all the other dirty dishes piled in there. Behind me, Tristan gives another sigh, sounding martyred.
"Seriously. You need to put something on. I've got—"
I whirl around and stalk over so I'm standing directly in front of him, glaring warningly. "No," I say. "I do not need to do anything. Especially not anything you say. You know why? 'Cause this was supposed to be my night alone in the apartment—you promised me that you would be gone. And yet here you are. So, let me repeat this one more time, Tristan: Fuck. You."
Tristan purses his lips, his face becoming stony and his golden-green eyes narrowing in a way that always makes me really, really upset that he's gay. 'Cause he's one sexy mulatto motherfucker. One with a damn near perfect body that practically begs to have whip cream licked off every inch of it. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to get him drunk to the point where he'll temporarily forget he likes cock so I can have his. It hasn't work.
"Bitch, calm yourself," Tristan says. "I'm not going to be here for long."
"Then why are you even here at all?"
"To get my work shit," he tells me, already turning around to head down the "hallway" towards his room. "My boss called me. Said there was some sort of emergency and she needs me to come in."
I stare after him with a baffled scowl. "What the fuck kind of emergency could there be at Waffle House?"
"Dunno," Tristan says. His voice is muffled by the wall between us. That does not keep me from hearing him call out, "Will you please put some clothes on?"
"Why the hell is it so important for me to put clothes on?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "I mean, you're not going to be here, so what's the point?"
"The point is that in a less than a minute there will be—"
I whip around at the sound of the voice behind me, half out of surprise and half out of indignation that someone has the audacity to sneak up on me like that. At once, I find myself looking at an unfamiliar guy standing in the open doorway of my apartment. His eyes are roaming unashamedly up and down my nearly naked body and there's a smirk forming on his lips. My face heats up as I flush a little (more from anger, less from embarrassment for being caught in my knickers by a stranger). Instead of trying to cover myself, though, I merely raise both of my eyebrows and loudly clear my throat. At once, the guy's eyes snap to mine. They're the most striking blue I've ever seen.
"The fuck are you?" I ask.
The guy grins wickedly and walks into my apartment uninvited, only stopping once he's directly in front of me. "Name's Marc. And you must be Dani. It's very nice to meet you," he says suggestively, his eyes flickering over me quickly before he offers his hand for me to shake. I don't even glance down at it; I just raise my eyebrows further and give him a 'Seriously, dude?' expression. Marc drops his hand when he sees it, but it doesn't wipe that leering grin off his face. I don't know what pisses me off more: that fact that it even exists or the fact that I find it mouthwateringly sexy.
Just like the rest of him, my subconscious murmurs, bringing it to the forefront of my mind. Meaning I'm no longer only noticing his appearance on a subliminal level, but am very blatantly staring at him, checking him out like he was me not even two minutes before. 'Cause fuck it. This guy is delicious.
His body is more of a masterpiece than Tristan's. It's not too muscular; it's just to the point where the lines are nicely defined and tells me he could hold his own in a fight (and effectively hold me down in bed). On his right bicep there's a colorful tattoo of a zombie-thing devouring a brain out of a cracked skull. His tank top exposes enough of his collar bone to let me know he has some ink there as well, even if I can't see what it's of. He has dark brown hair that's styled in that messy way that tells me he doesn't do a damn thing to it because he know he doesn't have to in order for it to look sexy. It just always is. His face is that mischievous sort of handsome with prominent cheekbones and a sharp jaw covered in just the right amount of scruff. Add that to his gorgeous blue eyes, his smirk-grin, and how he smells like a goddamn God, and I have more than half a mind to show him the way to my bedroom. The fact that he looks like a snarky asshole doesn't change that. If anything, it just makes me want him unclothed even more.
Marc chuckles amusedly under his breath and I bring my gaze back up to his. There's a knowing look there, full of impishness and not-so-innocent thoughts of his own. It gives me goose-bumps in the best of ways. I feel the corner of my mouth lifting up in a lazy, pleased smirk.
Oh, the fun I'm going to have with you.
But just as I open my mouth to say something sarcastic and insulting because guys like him just eat that bitch-playing-hard-to-get shit right up and I can't make this too easy for him (i.e. the sex will be better if he thinks he's won it), a robe is thrown in my fucking face.
"The fuck!" I exclaim. I snatch the piece of clothing off my head and throw it down on the floor, already glaring in the direction it came from. Tristan stands there with a serious, disapproving look.
"Pick it up and put it on right now," he orders me.
"Why?" I demand.
"Because we have a guest," Tristan says, gesturing towards Marc.
I glance over at Marc just as Marc glances at me. After staring at each other for a few seconds, we both turn back to Tristan and at the same time say, "I don't mind." Marc and I immediately look back at each other, identical slow smirks appearing on our lips. Somewhere off to the left of me, Tristan sighs exasperatedly and despairingly.
"That's the problem," he mutters under his breath. He then starts to walk towards the apartment door. "C'mon Marc. I said I'd drop you off on my way to work."
"Right," Marc says with a nod, though he's not looking over at Tristan nor does he make any sign that he'll be moving any time soon. Instead, he cocks an eyebrow at me, leering again. I raise both of my own eyebrows at him. He grins and says, "I'll see you around."
I say nothing. I merely shrug one shoulder with a bored, uncaring expression, and turn to walk away down the hall. As I do, I make sure to swing my hips a little more than necessary. Marc's gaze on my ass is so intense that I can actually feel it burning. Tristan's huff and the sounds that follow tell me he actually has to drag Marc out of our apartment because the guy's too busy staring. Which was exactly what I was going for. And that it worked brings a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk on my face as I enter my bedroom.
Oh, yes. I am definitely going to have fun with this.